


Waking Up Next to You

by perfectlystill



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Bad Cooking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Laundry, Living Together, Mild Sexual Content, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-12 12:33:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19132102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill
Summary: MJ does something she has repeatedly said she’d never, ever do: she makes him dinner.





	Waking Up Next to You

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Carly Rae Jepsen's "Now that I've Found you."

“Five years is a long time…”

“When are you guys going to be ready for the next step?”

“Moving in together helps determine if you’re compatible. Long term, you know?”

“Are there wedding bells on the horizon?”

“Marriage?”

Michelle huffs, rolls her eyes, and tells almost everyone -- coworker, great uncle from Georgia, Betty -- “Never.” 

Once she told Ned that she and Peter eloped six months ago. He sputtered around the half-eaten potato chip in his mouth, face turning deep red. It was pretty funny. 

MJ never really thought about marriage aside from the usual: archaic, patriarchal tradition that treated women as property; cool for tax breaks. MJ never thought about it much in relation to herself, or in conjunction with being in love with Peter. But when they move in together, it’s something they get asked about at work events and housewarmings and family reunions. Constantly. All the time.

Peter tensed next to her the first time someone -- James Rhodey -- asked: “So,” pause for a pointed look, “when are you gonna make an honest man out of our little Peter?”

MJ blinked. “When he stops leaving dried toothpaste in the sink.”

Rhodey laughed, and Peter sighed an almost chuckle underneath his breath.

And in the car on the way back to their tiny, cramped apartment in Brooklyn, Peter asked, very seriously, “Does that actually bother you?”

(Yes.)

 

 

MJ sits a chair down from Peter in the laundromat, feet propped in his lap as she flips through a copy of _Cosmo_ somebody left behind. She finished _Babel-17_ , their laundry still has 9, 12 and 13 minutes respectively, and she doesn’t want to answer work emails on Sunday. 

“Hey,” Michelle says, kicking at Peter’s thigh. 

“Yeah?” 

“Are you good in bed?”

The tips of his ears turn MJ’s favorite hue of pink. “Uh, wouldn’t you be the best person to answer that question?”

“No, loser.” She waves the magazine around. “Want to take the quiz?”

“Not really.”

“Great.” A beat. “So, you want to give him a surprise in the bedroom for his birthday, you: A. Try that new position he’s been talking about wanting to do for the first time. B. Get a new piece of lingerie and wear it for him doing your usual routine, or C. Actually go down on him without expecting anything in return?”

“Can you speak a little quieter?” Peter asks, flush spreading to his cheeks. 

MJ looks around the dingy laundromat: it’s packed, but there aren’t any toddlers running around like last weekend. “We’re all adults here, Parker. Answer the question.”

“C?” He keeps flipping his phone over and over and over.

“No. It’s definitely A.”

“What?”

“Don’t act like C isn’t what you do every time we have sex. You can’t say it’s a special birthday surprise if you do it all the time.”

“If you know my answers, why don’t you just take the quiz for me?” He scratches at the back of his neck.

“We’re testing your self-awareness.”

“Okay.” He clears his throat. “But the quiz asked about some guy, right? What if I only like,” he pauses, voice lowering to a whisper as he leans toward her, hand dropping to her ankle. “Eating _you_ out.”

Okay, MJ isn’t shy, but maybe she gets why his face is progressively turning into a tomato. She doesn’t need some weirdo eavesdropping on the details of their sex life, stupid quiz or not. She exhales, and his eyes flit across her face like he knows she’s not as blase as she was a moment ago. “Fine. But that answer probably makes you worse at sex. I was trying to help you out.”

He smiles, sitting back in his chair. “I appreciate it.”

His quiz results are ‘pretty good.’ “Eh, that’s probably accurate,” Michelle says, closing the magazine and tossing it onto the chair next to her.

“What did you get?”

MJ scoffs. “I didn’t take it. You can tell which of the three results you’re going to get based on the answers.”

Peter laughs, finger nudging underneath her sock. “I already know, anyway.”

“Is that supposed to be a taunt? You sorted my dirty underwear earlier.”

“Yeah, I did,” he says, accompanied by a disgusting eyebrow waggle.

“That’s not sexy, nerd. This quiz is broken. You clearly need work.”

He gently lifts her legs off his lap. “Now I’m going to take your clean, _hot_ underwear out of the dryer.”

“You’re actively turning me off.”

“You’re saying reading _Cosmo_ turned you on?” He grins a dopey, stupid thing. 

“Gross.” She tries to kick at his shin, but her coordination isn’t very good, and his reflexes are superhuman. Peter normally lets Michelle get the hit in, but today he dodges it. “Get our stuff before that woman dumps it on the floor.”

 

 

“MJ? Honey?” May calls from her bedroom. 

“Yeah?”

“Can you help me zip this dress? It’s--” She groans. “I think I snagged it.”

Michelle hauls herself off the couch and smooths out her skirt. May’s door is already ajar, but she pushes it open gently. “Yeah. You did,” MJ says, grabbing the fabric to hold it taut and pull the zipper free. 

“Thank you.” May beams at her through the mirror, dress zipped up, the little clasp at the top fastened. 

“No problem.”

“Peter’s on his way?”

“Yeah,” MJ assures her. “There was a robbery at a bodega, but he shouldn’t be much longer.”

May opens a small wooden box on her dresser, picking out various rings. It reminds MJ of her own small jewelry box, but she knows May has a larger, more organized one for the pieces she likes to haggle for at flea markets. “Good. Happy values punct-- Oh! Here it is.”

May’s eyes go soft and misty as she fiddles with the ring. She sighs wistfully, turning toward MJ. Michelle would ask if May is okay, but she glances down at the small, glinting diamond, and her throat closes up. 

“Give me your hand,” May says.

MJ throws her right arm forward. 

“Other one, please.” May’s eyes sparkle more than the diamond she’s holding, mischievous, and MJ gets the vague feeling that May knows more than she does. MJ doesn’t like that feeling. Ever. 

She holds out her left hand anyway, allowing May to slide the ring onto her ring finger. 

“Maybe half a size too big,” May says, voice carrying toward the diamond and not Michelle.

“Um,” she answers. A stupid syllable filling the silence.

May’s smile softens, and she takes the ring back. “Later,” she promises before rifling through another drawer for a tiny, empty jewelry box. 

Peter shows up, hair askew and suit jacket a bit wrinkled. May goes to iron the jacket while MJ tugs him into the bathroom, running her hands through his hair to try and get it under control.

“I shot a web at his wrist, except it got stuck to a wall of ramen noodles, and he just jerked his hand and down came--”

“Are you going to propose?”

“What?” Peter blanches. 

“Sorry. Nevermind.” MJ exhales and pats down one of Peter’s curls.

“Do you-- Do you want me to?”

“What? No!”

Peter stills, glancing at the floor, mouth flicking down for an almost imaginary moment. He makes eye contact again, shoulders still tense. “Okay. Yeah. I didn’t think so.”

Michelle swallows and presses her mouth into a thin line. She knows she should say something about how the idea of being proposed to isn’t as repulsive to her as it might have sounded, but she has to fix the hair she just re-mussed. 

“Happy is two minutes away!” May yells, so MJ recommits to the task at hand and does not ponder whether Peter wants to propose or wants her to want him to.

 

 

MJ doesn’t cook. The tedium of chopping vegetables frustrates her, her eyes well up whenever she cuts into an onion, and water takes too long to boil. The effort cooking requires never feels worth it in the end, so her repertoire is basically boxed mac and cheese, canned soups, and, if she’s feeling really motivated, she’s fairly decent at cooking an egg over easy -- the flipping is fun if it works, and annoying if it doesn’t.

Peter doesn’t mind cooking as much. He can stir fry vegetables and throw beans and tomato sauce into the ridiculously nice crockpot Pepper gifted them to make a simple chilli. The french toast he fries up for her on Saturday morning is genuinely delicious. But between work and his nighttime vigilante antics, he doesn’t usually have the time or energy.

As a result, they eat a lot of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and takeout, except when Peter sporadically worries about their salt intake. Then, he’ll spend an entire week making meals with five ingredients or less, ranging from mediocre to pretty good. Michelle has a hunch that if she added more salt, it’d all taste better. 

Peter’s recovering from a cold, a young boy is in critical condition at Presbytrian after a mugging Peter tried to stop last night, and it’s a week before the anniversary of his uncle’s passing, so MJ does something she has repeatedly said she’d never, ever do: she makes him dinner. 

Lasagna, to be exact. 

Peter likes lasagna. Orders it every time they go to Oregano. 

Michelle reads over the recipe -- borrowed from Betty -- once. It seems simple enough, but she has to boil water _and_ mince an onion. She’s over it less than 15 minutes in. 

She perseveres; she isn’t a quitter, and she purchased all the ingredients after leaving work early. Besides, she has no idea what else they’d do with fennel seeds.

Peter twists the handle of their apartment door ten minutes after the lasagna is done. “Hey, how was your day?”

“Fine,” MJ says, sitting in front of the pan. 

“What’s that?” Peter gestures toward the food as he sets his laptop bag on the kitchen counter -- a really annoying habit MJ puts up with because Peter doesn’t complain when she peels her socks off and throws them onto the floor while reading on the sofa. 

“Lasagna.” 

He toes off his work shoes, setting them next to MJ’s flats on the mat by the front door. “Yeah, but did you … you didn’t make that?”

“I did,” she says, mildly offended. 

“Uh, why?”

“Because I thought I’d try being nice to you, but you’re starting to make me regret it.” She rolls her eyes. “I just followed the recipe.”

“That’s really nice. Thank you.” He rounds the table, runs his hand over the top of her head and leans down to kiss the crown. “I appreciate it.”

“Good.”

He washes his hands, grabs a glass from the cabinet and fills it with water while MJ stabs at the lasagna with a spatula. “How was work?”

“I finished the grant application for funding of the women’s shelter downtown. Hopefully we won’t wait too long for a response. And we’re planning a clothing drive some time in July. Should be simple to organize.” She shovels the food onto Peter’s plate and pushes it toward him when he sits down. 

“That’s awesome,” he says, genuinely overeager; it still makes her heart squeeze. “Are you not eating?”

“I had a sandwich while it was in the oven. Cooking is exhausting.”

Peter laughs, cutting a piece of lasagna with his fork. “Thank you.”

MJ watches him take a bite. His eyes widen before he actively tries to settle his face. His jaw works and works, his eyebrows furrowing. 

He hates it. 

She knows he hates it. 

She has spent a truly embarrassing amount of time staring at his stupid, cute face over the years, and she knows what thinly veiled disgust looks like on it. 

Michelle fucked up the lasagna. Betty and Ned are going to have a field day with this. 

Peter swallows, and it looks painful. 

“That bad?” she asks.

“No!” He coughs. “Really good.”

Peter aggressively cuts another piece off the square she gave him, shoving it into his mouth and fake moaning around it. She knows what that sounds like, too. Like she said: embarrassing. 

She watches him finish his first helping, gulping down his entire glass of water after.

“Do you want another piece?” MJ asks, eyeing him. 

He grimaces for half a moment before nodding. “Yeah! It’s delicious. Thanks.”

She cuts him a piece twice as large as the first, clamping down around her mouth’s urge to twist into a smile when Peter gulps and rubs at his forehead.

He barely chews, probably just enough to swallow the food down without choking, clearing his plate in less than five minutes. He smiles at her when he’s done, thanks her again, and grabs a beer from the fridge, drinking half of it in one go like he wants to erase the taste of the lasagna from his mouth immediately. 

Peter scrubs his fork and plate in the sink before heading to their bedroom to change into red spandex. MJ texts Betty that she has no idea what happened, but she ruined the lasagna. Betty responds with ten different questions in one message, but MJ doesn’t really plan on figuring out _what_ she did wrong. She’s not going to torture herself by making it again, even if she’d do it right the second time. 

She grabs the pan, now cool enough to handle without potholders, and begins scraping the remaining lasagna into the garbage. 

“What are you doing?” Peter asks. 

She looks up. He’s in pajamas and not red spandex. Maybe he’s afraid he’ll puke on a little, old lady while helping carry her groceries. “Throwing it away, obviously.” 

“Why?” His voice goes high and airy. 

“Because you hated it.”

“I didn’t--”

“You did.”

He sighs, shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry. It was like, cold in the middle but burnt on the bottom? Weirdly spicy. The noodles were still kind of hard--”

“I get it,” she snaps.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” MJ scrapes off the last bit stuck to the corner of the pan and scoots the trash bin back underneath the sink.

“I still really appreciate it,” Peter says. 

She blows a curl out of her eyes and fills the pan with warm water so the cheese and sauce don’t stick to it. Michelle looks at him: warm brown eyes and floppy hair. “I know. You had two helpings.”

“I did.” He chuckles. “Wait, if you knew I didn’t like it, why did you give me seconds?”

Michlle leans against the counter and shrugs. “It was fun watching you try to swallow it down without vomiting. Your face got splotchy and you blinked every other second.” 

“MJ,” he says, almost exasperated. 

“What? I asked you if it was awful and you were like, _Noooo. It’s good!_ For once in your life, you could have tried telling the truth first.”

“My voice isn’t that high,” he says.

“Sure it is.”

Peter takes a step toward her. “I didn’t want to make you feel bad.”

“I don’t. It’s lasagna.” MJ narrows her eyes. “And how was lying the better option?”

“Just a little, white lie.”

“What if I decided to make you weekly lasagna?”

He laughs. Rude. “You would never chop onions every week.”

“Hypothetically.”

“Then I would have eaten your gross lasagna once a week.”

“That’s stupid,” she says. Their kitchen is too small for the two of them to be standing in it like this. If either one of them move too freely, their elbow will hit something: the refrigerator or toaster, maybe his thigh will knock against the kitchen table. 

“I’d do a lot of stupid things for you.” He thumbs at her cheek and leans in, pressing a nice kiss against her mouth. He tastes like beer and not lasagna. 

“You do a lot of stupid things in general.” She kisses him again before placing a hand on his chest, pushing him back. “You’ve got dishes.”

 

 

Twice a month they get Sunday brunch with Ned and Betty. Ned and Betty always pick the spot and make the reservations.

Betty always orders a mimosa. 

Today, she orders lemonade.

Michelle stares at her while the waiter takes Ned’s order.

“What?” Betty asks when the waiter leaves. 

“You ordered lemonade.” 

“I like lemonade.” She shrugs, and Ned slings an arm around her shoulders.

“This place has unlimited mimosas,” MJ says. “Peter just ordered them.”

“I did,” Peter agrees. 

Betty’s shoulders hitch almost imperceptibly, and Ned rubs circles into her right shoulder blade. “We wanted to wait to tell you, but--”

“We’re pregnant!” Ned says, overly loud and rushed. 

“Yes.” Betty smiles, a little shaky but mostly relieved and happy.

“With twins!” Ned continues.

“Oh my god,” Peter mutters. MJ looks at him: mouth agape but eyes bright. “That’s awesome. Congratulations, guys.”

Ned and Betty’s smiles widen into face-splitting grins, and Peter scrapes his chair back to hug them both, so MJ follows suit. Ned squeezes her the way he always does, too tightly. It used to make her stiffen, but now she relaxes into it, finds it comforting even if she has to bend her knees awkwardly. 

“So, that’s our news,” Betty says. “Do you two have any big announcements coming soon?” 

Betty and Ned’s eyes seem very focused and beady. MJ clears her throat and exchanges an uncomfortable look with Peter. 

“We’re thinking about buying a cactus,” Peter says.

They are not.

Ned sighs and slumps back into his chair, pouting. Betty shakes her head. 

“Do you think we should get a different plant?” Peter asks. “A spider plant could be fun.”

“Loser,” MJ coughs into her fist.

“That could be cool,” Ned says, perking back up. He’s so easy. 

Halfway through brunch, when Ned and Betty are hunched over Ned’s phone trying to find the various images of cribs Ned’s mom sent them, Peter leans over and whispers, “If we ever decide to have kids, and you ever get pregnant, I will never tell anyone that _we’re_ pregnant.”

“If you did, I’d kick you in the balls so hard you’d never be able to impregnate me again.”

His winces but nods. “That’s fair.”

 

 

“Liam is in love with me,” MJ says.

She sits cross-legged on the sofa, knee nudged against Peter’s thigh and chopsticks jammed into the fried rice she ordered from the Thai place two blocks over. On TV, Sugar is realizing that Joe is both Joespehine and Junior. 

Peter hums in acknowledgment. 

“Did you hear what I said?” she asks.

“Liam’s in love with you.”

“I ran into him in the kitchen at work. He seemed pretty down, and when I asked if he was okay, he said, ‘No.’ Because he’s in love with me.”

“Makes sense,” Peter says before shoving more yum nua into his mouth. 

Michelle hates to admit it, but his reaction, or lack thereof, is kind of disappointing. “Right. I’m the best.”

“Best ever,” Peter agrees.

She picks up a clump of rice with her chopsticks but lets it drop back into her oyster pail. “So you don’t like … feel anything about this at all?” 

Peter’s mouth twitches up because he’s an asshole. He leans forward, grabbing the remote off the coffee table and pausing the movie. “MJ, I live my life assuming everyone you meet is going to fall in love with you.”

“The smart ones do.” She makes purposeful eye contact for a beat. “A few dumb ones, too.”

He smiles. When it fades, he tilts his head. “Isn’t Liam married?”

“Yeah. He said he realized he’s in love with me, but he knows it’ll never work out because he’s married and I have a boyfriend.”

“Okay.” Peter nods. 

“I don’t want you to have a jealous meltdown and come to the office and punch him in the face or anything.”

“That’s good.”

MJ breaks up a clump of rice, picks up a cashew, chews and swallows. Peter’s watching her with fond amusement, and she can feel it prickle against the back of her neck. “It’s kind of nice that other people still think I’m attractive, and it’d be kind of nice if you cared about that at all. _Kind of_.”

“Kind of.” Peter hums. 

“I do work with him every day.”

“You do.”

“Yep.” 

“But you’re not in love with him,” Peter says. 

“Liam?” MJ scrunches her face together in disgust. “Gross.”

Peter smiles a small, kind smile at her, but she can see the humor still dancing in his eyes. She knows he’s going to tease her about this forever, and she’s going to have to seriously consider murdering him as a result. “I trust you. I don’t care about Liam.”

That’s really nice. 

Very sweet. 

A great answer, honestly. 

MJ should be pleased with it, would be, probably, at any other time. But right now there’s a stupid, irrational part of her brain that wants her boyfriend to feel just a little bit jealous. She bites her lip and bends one flap of cardboard back and forth. 

“What’s wrong?” Peter asks. 

“I’m in love with you,” she jokes. 

He laughs. “I’m in love with you, too. Now tell me how I was supposed to react, and the next time someone tells you they’re in love with you, I’ll do that instead.”

Michelle rolls her eyes. “Remember when we managed to shove ourselves off this sofa last month and actually go to dinner and the movies?”

Peter nods. “Yes.”

“When the waitress flirted with you, it was mildly frustrating for me. Or when you checked out that guy at the grocery store last weekend, I was very briefly annoyed.” God, she hates this. She feels stupid feeling it or thinking it, nevermind saying it outloud. 

“I feel that, too,” he says, setting his oyster pail on the coffee table before prying hers away and placing it next to his own. He grabs both her hands, and there’s a callus on his thumb when he runs it along the inside of her wrist. The pressure is gentle and reassuring. “I always notice people noticing you. Four different people stared at you at that restaurant last month, and the teenage boy who sold us popcorn at the movies looked like he would have proposed to you right there.”

“You’re making that up.”

“Maybe.” He squeezes her hand. “But that’s how I interpreted him offering you extra butter.”

She snorts. 

“We’re not in high school anymore, MJ. Just because I’m better at dealing with it, that doesn’t mean I don’t feel jealous sometimes. I know how lucky I am to be with you. If you ever dump me, I’d understand because you’re totally out of my league, but I’d be inconsolable.”

“Very dramatic,” she says, meaning to sound sarcastic or mocking, but it’s too quiet. She pulls one hand out of his and tucks a stray curl behind her ear. She could tell him that he’s being ridiculous because he is her favorite person in the whole world. But that feels like stacking vulnerability upon vulnerability, and Michelle doesn’t have the emotional energy for any more revealing, embarrassing confessions tonight. Besides, Peter already knows. “I’d never dump you. I can barely put up with you as it is, and I can’t imagine starting over and building up a tolerance to somebody else.”

“High praise.”

“Extremely,” she agrees, pulling his arm around her and settling against his chest. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I promise not to.”

He unpauses the movie, and she lets him steal one of her cashews. 

 

 

MJ’s brow wrinkles as she stares at the invitation in her hands. Huh. 

“Oh, you got one, too,” Ned says. 

“Are you and Betty going?”

“A free weekend in the fancy part of the Hamptons? Hell yeah.”

“I can’t believe he convinced somebody to marry him,” MJ says. “But Flash is loaded, so.”

“MJ!” Ned hits her arm. 

“Ned,” she deadpans, smacking him right back. 

They’ve all kept in touch since high school, even if they don’t talk often, barring a social media comment here or there and meeting up for dinner whenever Flash is back in the city -- he moved to Silicon Valley to head up another division of his father’s company after college. Losing those five years bonded all of them, so she isn’t surprised by the invitation. Michelle’s taken aback because he’s engaged to his girlfriend of only three months. 

“The accommodations are gonna be so awesome, and I bet the food will be incredible.”

“Definitely.” She nods, tossing the invitation onto the small pile of mail sitting on the counter. “It just seems fast.”

“He’s finally living up to the nickname he gave himself!”

Michelle huffs out a laugh. “Yeah.”

“And Vivi seems great. I don’t know. I’m happy for him.”

“Me too,” MJ agrees, putting on the kettle. 

They make their way to the sofa, the screen paused on the opening credits of _It Follows_. Despite being a superhero -- or because of it -- Peter likes his movies to be funny, feel-good affairs. He doesn’t do horror, but he’s spending a week in Oakland doing Avenger stuff with Shuri, which means MJ and Ned can watch as many depressing, terrifying movies as they want. Or, however many fit into this Friday evening while Betty watches the twins by herself. Probably two. Ned’s constantly exhausted, and MJ had a long work week. 

(She doesn’t sleep as well without Peter around, either, but that’s confidential information.)

She squishes into the cushions and reaches for the remote.

“Don’t start it yet,” Ned says.

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll have to pause it in two minutes when your water boils.”

“Peter never complains.”

“Peter’s whipped.”

“That’s offensive.” Michelle throws a piece of popcorn into the air and catches it in her mouth. It’s weirdly satisfying. “Also, true.”

“He’d marry you,” Ned says. He says it like she didn’t know that. He’s looking at her without any of the lightheartedness he usually possesses. Like maybe he and Peter have had actual, serious conversations about it. 

She didn’t know that, and it makes her face feel hot. “I have to check on my tea.”

“The kettle isn’t whistling.”

She pushes off the sofa, her heart beating double in her chest. 

She’d marry Peter, she thinks. 

And the scariest part is how it doesn’t seem very scary at all. 

 

 

MJ begins pulling the clump of hair out of the drain -- mostly hers; maybe all hers -- and yanks when it gets stuck. She blows hot air out of her mouth and feels it brush against her forehead. She’s sticky with sweat, and her arm hurts from scrubbing. 

“I’m back,” Peter says. “Sorry I’m late. I saw your text when I was already leaving. I picked up a sandwich from the bodega and will probably just take it with me patrolling.” 

She turns from where she’s kneeling, leaning against the bathtub. “No.”

“No?”

“No,” she affirms. Pushing herself up takes more effort than it should, and her knees ache. She pulls off the pair of cleaning gloves and tosses them at Peter’s chest. He fumbles but catches them. “You’re going to finish cleaning the shower.”

“MJ, I know it was my week, but I was really busy--”

“You’re always busy.” She brushes past him into the living room and pushes the hairs that escaped her bun off her forehead. He follows her, gloves in hand. “You always do this. You always get caught up in the lab, or have some superhero emergency when it’s your turn to clean the bathroom.”

“I’ll do it this weekend.”

“You were supposed to do it last weekend.” She crosses her arms and glares at him.

He blinks. “My stomach was sliced open last weekend.”

“Whose fault is that?” 

“Uh, the alien terrorizing people on the Brooklyn bridge?” He moves to scratch at the back of his neck, but realizes the cleaning gloves are still in his hand. 

“Yours.” She rolls her eyes. “And you were fine on Monday. Went patrolling Tuesday instead of doing your share of the housework.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize--”

“I’m not your maid, Peter.”

He nods rapidly. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.”

“You always half-ass it. And if you don’t keep the fan running for at least five minutes after you shower, mold will grow on the ceiling.”

“MJ--”

“I already fucking cleaned the sink and toliet. I’m going to read.”

She’s angry. She’s angry about the dust in the crevices of the toilet base less than an hour after the last time Peter actually cleaned the bathroom three weekends ago. She’s angry that he didn’t even think about scrubbing the shower on Tuesday. She’s angry that she brought him meals in bed last weekend so he wouldn’t have to move too much while his wound healed. She’s angry she had to scrub his blood off her hands when the clock ticked from Friday to Saturday. 

Michelle washes her hands at the kitchen sink, stomps to their bedroom, and slams the door shut. She flops onto the mattress, stifling the urge to scream into her pillow. 

She lies there with her eyes closed, breathing heavy. 

When the room feels too stuffy, MJ rolls over, grabbing her book off the nightstand. After her third attempt at the same paragraph, she gives up. Her phone is in the living room, so she threads her fingers together over her stomach and stares at the ceiling. She tracks the familiar marks doting the paint, including the tiny vein from the time Peter was testing out new web fluid and pulled too hard.

She turns her head toward the door when it creaks open.

Peter doesn’t say anything. 

She returns to staring at the ceiling even though the sun is setting and everything is starting to go dark.

MJ feels the dip of the mattress when he sits next to her. “I’ll try to be better at doing my share of the chores in a timely manner.” 

She swallows. “Thank you.”

“I don’t expect you to clean up after me. I’m really sorry.”

“Okay.” She exhales through her nose. 

“Okay.”

Michelle blinks at him. “I was angry about the bathroom.”

“I got that.” He doesn’t smile, or laugh. He wrings his hands in his lap and worries his bottom lip.

“I was also angry about this.” She pokes at his abdomen. 

“Oh.”

They spent the first six months of their relationship not talking too much about what Peter being Spider-Man meant to them. When he knocked on MJ’s window one night, ten minutes away from passing out, she stitched him up. When he did pass out -- in her bed! That felt like such a big deal at the time, and Michelle wishes the younger version of herself, the version even before she disappeared for five years, could know that one day her bed and Peter’s bed would be the same -- she ran her fingers through his hair and stayed up all night to make sure he didn’t stop breathing. 

They spent the next six months extensively discussing what Peter being Spider-Man meant to them. His sense of duty, her expectations, shifting through various compromises to figure out a practical application that worked. 

Neither of them have really revisited the topic since.

“I’m not asking you to retire,” she starts. His jaw clenches. “And I know crime doesn’t happen on a schedule, but I think … I’d like it if you had one.”

“A schedule?”

“Yes.”

“Like, I only go out Monday, Wednesday and Friday?” Peter asks. 

“Something like that.” MJ closes her eyes and presses her palms against them. “The week before you got hurt, we spent Tuesday together. That was it.”

“That’s not--”

“Sunday you had your day with May, Monday I was up before you for a meeting, and by the time you got back from Ned’s, I was asleep.” Her voice sounds weak and shaky, but Peter’s looking at her with a soft, concerned expression, and it helps even if it makes her want to close her eyes again. “Wednesday I had the counseling event at the women’s shelter, and Thursday I got drinks with my coworkers to celebrate it. Friday you worked late before patrolling.”

“You’re right.”

“If I knew you were patrolling on Thursdays and not Fridays, I could make plans for Thursdays and not Fridays. It feels like we’re just alternating who is sitting home alone.”

Peter swallows. His hand fidgets against his thigh like he wants to touch her, but he doesn’t. “I guess I thought you liked having some nights to yourself.”

“I do.” She grabs his hand and squeezes. “But not if we haven’t spent more than 30 non-sleeping minutes together in three days.”

“Okay.” He nods. “But if there’s something unexpected, like an alien attack, or an entire city block is on fire--”

“I understand.” Michelle rolls her eyes. “I know what an emergency is, loser.”

He squeezes her hand back. “I really am sorry.”

“I believe you.” She uses her free elbow and Peter’s strength to help push up into a sitting position. She kisses his cheek. 

He turns his head to kiss her mouth. “Do you want to make sure the bathroom is up to your standards?” 

“No.” She scoots back toward the center of the bed, tugging his hand so he follows. MJ kisses him, soft and languid, enjoying the familiar feeling of his mouth moving against hers, opening up and turning greedy. 

She lifts her leg over both of his and straddles him. “What’re you doing?” he asks. 

He’s so dumb. 

“I like being listened to,” she says. 

He cups the base of her neck with his palm, tilts her head to kiss her deeper, wet and open, sliding his tongue passed her lips. She feels the moan in the back of her throat more than hears it. 

When they break away to breathe, he barely brushes his mouth over the sensitive patch of skin behind her ear. “I’ll do whatever you say,” Peter whispers, voice low and gravelly, pulsing between her thighs. 

MJ kisses along his jaw, slowly and deliberately working her way down his neck. She runs her hands over his abs, fingers catching on the buttons of his shirt. She likes the way his fingers flex impatiently against her hip. 

It’s been over a week. 

She has plenty of ideas. 

 

 

Peter’s upstate doing mandatory Avengers training and press over the weekend. 

MJ uses her solitude wisely: ordering from the Ethiopian place Peter associates with the stomach flu and will never order from again despite admitting that the food and vomiting were unrelated, reading through three of the unread novels she picked up from the used bookstore, and taking a long, uninterrupted bubble bath accompanied by her favorite, embarrassing pop songs. 

She wraps her towel around her body, tying a knot underneath her armpit and sliding her feet into her slippers. She had a robe at some point, but she hasn’t seen it in months. Michelle moseys back into the bedroom, digging through Peter’s drawer for the softest sweatshirt with the stupidest science pun. 

Except her hand hits something. 

She frowns, lifting up the the thick cotton in her palm and tilting her head to the side. 

MJ vaguely recognizes the navy blue of the small jewelry box, but she doesn’t realize why until she picks it up and cracks it open. 

It’s the ring May put on her finger three years ago. 

May’s old engagement ring. 

In Peter’s drawer. 

Michelle would feel bad if she was actively snooping, but Peter knows she likes to steal his hoodies and too short sweatpants. Really, this is his fault. 

She does one of the most ridiculous things she has ever done in her life. 

She slides the ring onto her finger, finds it’s been resized, and takes a deep breath she can feel reverberating sharply against her heart. 

Then, she does another ridiculous thing:

She leaves it there. 

Just to see. 

She puts on the softest, stupidest sweatshirt she can find and a pair of Peter’s too-short sweatpants. After grabbing her leftovers out of the refrigerator and heating them in the microwave, MJ watches _Pride and Prejudice_ despite initially planning on _Children of Men_.

She sleeps with the ring on her finger, and when she wakes up, she carefully returns it to the little blue box in the corner of Peter’s drawer.

MJ drafts a text to Ned informing him that she’d say yes, but she doesn’t send it. 

It’d be too obvious that she’d found the ring, which he undoubtedly knows Peter has in his possession, and MJ likes to think she’s better at keeping secrets than Dumb and Dumber. 

 

 

Michelle gets cold feet. 

When the sun goes down, and especially in the middle of winter, her feet freeze. It wouldn’t be too awful if cold feet didn’t also cause a chill to pulse through her entire body. 

“You could wear socks,” Peter suggests, half of his face squished into his pillow. Various city lights stream inside, and different colors dance across the room. 

“I’ll never wear socks to bed.”

“You keep saying that.”

“You keep suggesting it.” MJ shrugs as best she can while lying on her side. She props her head up in her hand and kicks her foot out again, running her toes along Peter’s shin. 

“Your feet are cold,” he says.

“So you agree it’s a problem.”

His mouth quirks up, and he mirrors her posture: elbow on pillow, cheek in palm. “You make it my problem by shoving your feet between my legs every night.”

“It’s not my fault you run hot.”

“It’s not my fault you run cold!”

“That’s not very nice,” MJ says flatly, scooching her body closer to Peter’s. 

His eyebrows furrow, and he frowns. “I don’t think you’re like, emotionally cold. A cold person or anything-- You know I didn’t--” 

“I was kidding.” She wiggles her toes between his legs. He makes a face, but doesn’t say anything else, just sort of settles into gazing at her in a way that warms her from the inside. How mushy and gross. “You’re always trying to cuddle with me, so I don’t know why you’re complaining.”

He has the gall to shift toward her. There are only a couple of breaths between them now. She could lift her head, lean forward, and brush her nose against his. “I’m not complaining.”

“You’re right, ordering me to keep my toes to myself is not the same as complaining.”

“I didn’t order you to do anything.”

“Sure you didn’t.” 

He groans. 

It’s almost midnight, and MJ is sleepy and soft, so she rolls even closer, arm going around Peter’s waist, hand rucking up his undershirt and palm splaying against his back. She can feel the heat of his skin radiating against her lifeline. “I’m only doing this so you don’t incinerate in the middle of the night.”

Peter moves forward, jostling her enough to be annoying. He presses a kiss to her forehead, and his lips are dry from the winter winds and forgetting to put chapstick on. Michelle will remind him when she forces him to get up and close the curtains.

Lying back farther than before, Peter makes space for MJ to lay her head on his pillow. He blinks at her, eyes wide and wonderful. “When I get back from patrolling and you’re already asleep, you swat at me.”

“I what?” 

“Like this.” He hits her arm, palm flat. It doesn’t hurt.

“Sorry?” 

“Don’t be.” Peter’s mouth curves into the tiny, affectionate smile he only ever uses when he’s too tired for anything bigger. When it’s just the two of them. “I like it. You find me and then fit yourself against me.”

“A freezing body searches for warmth,” she whispers. “Survival instinct.”

He brushes his hand over her curls and ducks his head to look at her more directly. The touch feels strangely gentle, and his face seems strangely vulnerable. “It feels like even when you’re asleep, or half-asleep, you know it’s me and you’re just letting me know you love me.”

Michelle blinks and uses her body weight to urge him onto his back. She tucks her head underneath his chin, arm around his waist, hand now running up and down his side. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “Sounds like something I would do.”

She knows when they fall asleep, they’re usually touching: just their arms pressed against each other, her toes tickling his shin, his palm splayed against her stomach. More cuddling than that usually makes him too warm and feels too claustrophobic, especially during the warmer months. But sometimes he curves his body around hers and nudges his nose against the notch at the top of her spine, or she scoots down the bed, arms around his waist and face pressed against the space between his shoulder blades, or he wraps an arm around her and she lays her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat and remembering he’s alive -- that he loves her. 

MJ hasn’t noticed waking up wrapped around him on nights when he’s out late and she falls asleep before he gets home, but catching something like that fits with Peter’s sappy, dorky self. 

“Maybe I’m making sure you didn’t die while rescuing an ant from a sprinkler system,” she says.

“Probably.” She can feel his exhale of laughter. 

She closes her eyes. The room isn’t dark enough with the curtains open. Michelle turns her head to block more light and breathes Peter in. He ran out of soap and used her body wash. She can smell it all over him. It’s nice. “I changed my mind. I think you were right. I think it’s because I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he says.

“I know.”

Peter doesn’t say anything about Michelle admitting he was right, and he doesn’t take the _Star Wars_ bait. He just traces swirls into her back, warm hand underneath her flannel pajama top.

He falls asleep, and she slips away to close the curtains, places the chapstick he bought on his nightstand, and crawls back into bed. Placing his arm between hers, MJ brushes her fingers gently along his wrist, rests her cheek against his shoulder, and nudges her toes between his legs. 

 

 

Two days into their weeklong vacation in Hawaii, MJ lies in a chair by the beach, book open against her chest and eyes closed against the sun. It’s hot in a way she doesn’t like, a thin layer of sweat coats her skin; Peter insists it makes her glow. Idiot. 

“They were out of mango, so I got you pineapple, instead,” Peter says. 

MJ blinks her eyes open, shields them from the sun with her palm even though she has sunglasses on and Peter’s mostly blocking it. “Thanks.” She bends the corner of her page to mark her place and closes her book, setting it on the little table next to her and sitting up to grab her drink. “Do you want to get married?”

Peter chokes. “Uh? Yeah-- I-- Yes? Yes. I do.”

“Today?”

“I have a ring,” he says. There’s a swipe of sunscreen above his right eyebrow that he didn’t rub in enough. 

“Here?”

“No.” He frowns. “It’s at home.”

“That’s okay. We don’t need it right now.”

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“Yeah.” She takes a sip of her frozen margarita. It’s delicious. She didn’t tell Peter what flavor she wanted if the resort ran out of mango. But she would have chosen pineapple. She grins around her straw.

“I’m sure, too.” He smiles back, ebullient and beautiful. 

 

 

They elope in Honolulu. MJ wears a floral sundress, and Peter wears a soft dress shirt and khakis. Both of their feet are shoved into cheap, ugly flip-flops.

She tries to convince him to wait six months before he tells Ned because she thinks it would be funny. He emphatically tells her that Ned would kill him, and MJ hums, jokes that Stark Industries would give her more money than she could make in ten lifetimes at her nonprofit. He groans, speaking with his hands, saying he _can’t_ lie to Ned. It’s not possible. Ned would see right through him. 

Peter’s probably right. 

So they call Ned from their hotel room, putting him on speaker. 

“We’re married!” Peter blurts. 

“What? You’re kidding? You did not get married without me?”

“We did,” MJ says, rubbing moisturizer into her skin.

“If this is a prank I’ll never forgive either of you,” Ned says. 

“Ned,” Peter starts, serious and seriously giddy. “It’s not a prank.”

“Oh my god,” he exhales. “Finally! Congratulations! This is awesome! I’m so happy for--”

Peter smiles dopily at MJ as Ned rambles on, so she snatches the phone from him and cuts Ned off: “Thanks. We love you, too. See you after the honeymoon.”

“Oh my god, are you--”

MJ ends the call.

“That was rude,” Peter says, but his voice is syrupy sweet and entirely fond in a way she doesn’t think anybody else has ever been of her -- wouldn’t want anyone else to ever be.

“He’ll get over it.” She shrugs.

Peter hums in agreement, and MJ crawls onto his lap. She wraps her arms around his shoulders. He smells like salt and cologne and Peter. His hands are warm, running up her thighs and skirting underneath the edge of her dress. “Don’t tell him, but you’re my favorite person,” Peter murmurs against the pulse beating in her neck. 

“Same.”

Pulling back, his eyebrows drift toward his forehead. “Same?”

“Yeah, same. Obviously. I just married you, didn’t I?”

Yes. 

She did. 

She verbalizes it, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Cold feet section partially inspired by [this](https://66.media.tumblr.com/5ef713744e4ba312d5b616bee814cb24/tumblr_psjpzylSim1vl39m5_500.jpg).


End file.
